


vivir siempre contigo

by deadeels



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 3+1, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Spanish, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-06 07:43:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14052216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeels/pseuds/deadeels
Summary: ten years is a long time to go without affection.





	vivir siempre contigo

**Author's Note:**

> [very important song!](https://youtu.be/TBxGPhXFnjc)

Angela examines his knee joints with a critical eye. It's his least favorite part of the required monthly check-ups by far - the vulnerability that comes with being without his prosthetics is uncomfortable at best and day ruining at worst. "There doesn’t seem to be any swelling, but I’d start taking them off more often if I were you. Your kneecaps were not made for such pressure that the locking mechanisms use.” She gives this advice sincerely even though they both know he won’t take it.

“Thank you, Doctor Ziegler.” Hanzo reaches down to fit his prosthetics back on, unable to keep his sigh of relief from escaping as he feels the _click_  of the locks.

When he sits back up Angela’s standing in front of him, folder in hand. “Would you give this to Jesse for me? It’s some diagnostics for his prosthetic. I wouldn’t make you run errands for me, but-“ she gestures to her desk, overrun with papers and blueprints for the Caduceus. “I’m quite swamped, and I know you two train together-“

“It is no problem.” Hanzo saves her, gently taking the folder out of her hand. She looks at him with the smallest of smiles.

It’s.. strangely validating.

Hanzo leaves the medbay and heads for the barracks with no small amount of relief to be mobile again. McCree’s room has always been easy to identify due to the massive dent in the door, from when he and Lucio’d been playing football in the hall (because it had been raining and apparently _‘the ball gets too slick to hit, man!’_ ) and he’d landed a kick that was too much for the makeshift goal post and had burst right through.

(Upon seeing the door Winston had sighed explosively and lumbered back in the direction he’d come.)

However, when Hanzo makes it to his room, the door is open. The base is sweltering right now, the Spanish spring more brutal than it has any right to be, and most agents have been leaving various windows and doors open to avoid the stuffiness. McCree seems to be one such with the idea, so Hanzo gets a full glimpse inside without the  _whoosh_ of the door opening to alert McCree to his presence. 

His mouth goes dry.

McCree’s standing in by the foot of his bunk with his stetson, boots and serape off, clad only in boxers and his customary button up, open because of the heat. There’s a song playing on the (horribly outdated) radio sitting by his bedside, a woman crooning in Spanish, and McCree is-

He’s _dancing_.

His hips and shoulders are swaying with the beat, his head bobbing slowly with the guitar languidly as he picks up a shirt from the pile of laundry on his bed, folds it carefully, and tosses it on top of a stack of similarly folded shirts. McCree hums along under his breath and Hanzo can hear various words slip out in Spanish. The song is perfect for the lazy, hot day, McCree's voice melding with the singer's and melting like honey. Hanzo's grip on the folder Angela gave him tightens. His palms sweat. He feels like he did when he used to see the serving boy at Rikimaru.

He stands there for a good minute before the song ends and McCree picks the stack of shirts up, turns around to put them in the dresser, and _y_ _elps_  at the sight of him hovering in the doorway.

“Jesus, Hanzo, can ya tune the ninja shit down just a little bit?” McCree regains his precarious hold on the bundle of shirts in his arms, shoots Hanzo a crooked smile that makes his already-stressed knees shake.

“Apologies.” Hanzo hates that he can feel the flush on his face. “Angela asked that I give this to you,” he says, and thrusts the folder into McCree’s arms. 

Hanzo swiftly turns on a metal heel and makes his escape before McCree can ask what’s in the folder.

* * *

Hanzo knows two things to be true about his relationship with McCree. They have a mutual respect for each other, both inside and outside of combat. This makes it easier work together - though he’d protect any of his teammates without hesitation, it is a good feeling to look out for some you respect, Hanzo thinks. McCree’s ability with a gun are admirable, his stealth skills somehow even more so, and this is something Hanzo thinks about often.

The second thing that he is fairly sure of, despite having never been  _that_ sort of vain, is that McCree is.. sweet on him, as he would say. This certainty is due to the fervor with which he’d taken Hanzo (roughly three days ago, enough time for the soreness to fade but certainly not the marks), as well as his overall behavior for the past couple of months. Jesse McCree kisses him on his forehead late at night, makes him tea and helps him with his prosthetics when the locks act up. He’s tender, and sweet, and Hanzo.. doesn’t take it in stride, exactly; there’s a few token protests at first, but they petered out after the second week.

He doesn’t mind the affection, which he knows is certainly out of character - and Genji does not hesitate to point this out.

McCree sets a cup of tea in front of him one morning after a particularly sleepless night, one Hanzo spent most of in the training sim because the comforting repetition of firing Storm Bowwas the only thing he could force himself to focus on.

And so, McCree brings him his tea, drops down to brush a kiss against Hanzo’s crown and murmurs a ‘ _f_ _eel better, darlin’’._ He ambles out of the kitchen leisurely as can be, tossing a grin at Genji as he goes. 

Hanzo hears the sound of Genji’s face mask sliding off and looks up. Genji’s eyes are so wide they look close to bursting out of his skull and his mouth is open a little bit. Hanzo can see his jaw working as he tries to form words.

“The _fuck, anija_?” His eyes, impossibly, widen even more and he looks as if he’s going to be sick. “Did you _fuck McCree?_ ” Hanzo glares.

 _“It wouldn’t kill you to be quiet,"_ he snaps in Japanese. Genji looks around - Hana and Lucio are hunched over a tablet inconspicuously, but they both know _that_ look on Hana’s smug face - and bursts out laughing.

“ _Why else would you let him be,”_ he waves a metal hand vaguely, as if to convey McCree’s sudden tenderness, “ _like_ that?” Hanzo slumps in his seat, takes a gulp of tea.

McCree even knows how much honey he likes. Jesus Christ.

 _“Not that it’s any of your business,”_ Genji huffs and Hanzo musters up a weak glare, _“but it’s..  not unwelcome. I -”_

Hanzo bites his tongue. _Ten years is a long time to go without affection, brother,_ he wants to say, but the implication that it is in any way Genji’s fault is unthinkable, and so he stays silent. Genji, for his part, has stopped laughing and taken on a thoughtful expression instead.

“He’s good for you, _anija."_

Hanzo can’t help but agree.

* * *

 Every Overwatch agent ends up in the kitchen early in the morning at some point or another. It’s inevitable, given what they’ve seen and done (and _see_ and _do,_ almost daily), almost like a rite of passage. _‘Congratulations, you’ve had your first nightmare featuring the death of a loved one_. _They only get worse._ ’

This is a more recognized habit among the older members, for obvious reasons, so it makes sense that Hanzo and McCree find each other there so often. It’s almost enough to be a habit, at this point - though Hanzo’s always considered _h_ _abits_ be inherently bad, things that should be broken, and he doesn’t want to stop seeing McCree. It's so different from where they started it almost gave him whiplash - when Hanzo had first arrived at the Watchpoint he’d been loathe to show weakness to anyone, least of all Genji’s closest friends, but Jesse McCree had just.. _wormed_ his way in, somehow, until Hanzo looked forward to their late night meetings.

That night, Genji's words fresh in his mind amidst the sound of clashing blades, he clutches a tin of  _sencha_  in hand while he waits for the water to boil.

He’s trying to be kinder to himself, because Genji had asked him to and that was reason enough, but he still felt as if he deserved the nightmares. _At least_ the nightmares, when Genji had lost so much. What’s the feeling of waking up with blood-slicked hands compared to the mess he’d made of his brother’s body? Incomparable, insurmountable.

(He’d tried bringing this up to McCree before, in a moment of extreme weakness, but McCree had just shook his head with a pointed glance to Hanzo’s legs. He hasn’t voiced his thoughts about it since.)

Hanzo’s instincts are too mucked up with self loathing to notice the door _whoosh_ ing open and someone stepping into the room. He does notice, however, when big tanned hands gently pry the _sencha_ out of his grip and place him on the counter before leading him over to the table.

“Let me take care of that for ya’, darlin’.” McCree returns to the kettle, scoops the right amount of _sencha_ into Hana’s cat-shaped tea ball, and drops it in Hanzo's mug. He pours the water over it slowly, like Hanzo showed him, shoving his face into the steam and inhaling deep because he always says it gives him a clearer head. He counts to one hundred and eighty in Spanish under his breath and takes out the strainer, resting it on the counter. Jesse measures out two spoonfuls of honey and stirs it in, careful not to hit the sides of the mug too much so as not to disturb the silence, picks it up with his metal hand and moseys back over to where Hanzo sits, mesmerized. As many times as McCree has made him tea recently, Hanzo has never actually _seen_ it, and it makes his chest feel tight and warm all at once.

“...Thank you,” he manages, and McCree beams.

“Anytime, sugar.”

* * *

The first time Hanzo heard McCree speak Spanish he was gripped with the deep, visceral urge to beg him to never stop, forget English all together, even though Hanzo couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Over time, Hanzo’s learned to control the urge - though just barely.

McCree speaks Spanish often, though not in an effort to show off; it slips off his tongue just like Japanese curses do when Hanzo burns himself on the kettle or Genji loses a round of a game to Hana. Many of Overwatch’s agents are bilingual, yet none of them have managed to provoke this same reaction from Hanzo simply by speaking their first language. It seems McCree and McCree alone is able to make him actually _swoon_ simply with an accented _r_.  

(Though Hanzo hears it often it’s never been directed at _him_ , and he tries to push down the odd feeling of dejectedness at that. He considers himself lucky to be able to hear it at all.)

They’re on a mission in Greece, which is blessedly cooler than Spain thanks to a perpetual drizzle, sent to guard one of the two large museums that the town is known for. It’s largely a recon job during the day, so they’re dressed fairly casual, Lena’s cronal accelerator hidden behind a big hoodie and Hanzo’s tattoo covered much the same. McCree had still donned his hat and serape but had lost the boots and ridiculous belt buckle before they left Gibraltar ( _I gotta be able to hide my eyes, Jack, I’m still a wanted man!_ ) Hanzo himself dislikes like having his arm restricted should he need to use his bow (currently packed away in the instrument case by his side), but he couldn’t argue that his tattoo needed to be covered - and the jacket does help to protect against the faint chill the rain brings.

The mission goes well up until it doesn’t. There’s only an hour left until it closes and they can retrieve their gear, and McCree lingers by a mosaic in a glass display while Hanzo examines a statue of a sphinx.

“I reckon it wouldn’t be so bad a job,” McCree says softly into the comm, “restorin’ old stuff and putting ‘em where people can see ‘em.” Hanzo nods, remembers McCree can’t see him.

“I agree,” he says, just as quietly. Hanzo risks a glance over to where McCree is standing. He’s got a smile on his face, looking down at the mosaic, and Hanzo feels warm all over.

“Hey,” Lena’s breathless voice comes on the comm and Hanzo startles. He can see McCree do the same out of the corner of his eye. “I think there’s trouble - someone must’a recognized us. I told Jack, but - “ The comm crackles with the sound of her blinks “I’d get back to the transport if I were you, I don’t think we can save this one.” The noise on her end of the comm ends abruptly, and McCree frowns.

“You reckon there’s someone waitin’ for us out there?” McCree mutters under his breath.

“I am not sure,” Hanzo says. He rolls the sleeves of his hoodie up and grips the instrument case, checks to make sure there are no civilians around - they seemed to have cleared out in the past few minutes, and Hanzo silently curses himself for becoming to distracted with McCree - and pulls Storm Bow out, strapping his quiver across his chest and kicking the case shut. He can hear McCree gulp.

“Well, seein’ as I ain’t got no gun, I guess you’re gonna have to be the dashing hero in this one, sweetheart,” McCree smiles, sidling up to him now that they’re all clear to go ahead. Hanzo rolls his eyes, ignores the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Either way,” McCree says earnestly. “ _Estoy contigo,_ darlin’.”

Hanzo feels his heart skip a damn beat right before they open the doors.

* * *

The ends of Hanzo’s hair flows freely over his shoulder, the rest wrapped between dexterous fingers as he weaves the strands in and out of each other. He’s wearing his sleep clothes - much like most everyone else on the base he had stripped down to the least amount of clothes possible while still being decent, which means boxers and a soft-looking t-shirt.

McCree feels something wrap around his heart and _squeeze_. He wants to bury his nose in Hanzo’s hair, his fingers in his shirt, and breathe him in. He swallows.

“Hey uh,” he starts awkwardly, rubbing his metal hand over the back of his neck. “D’you reckon we could talk?”

Hanzo turns his head slowly, fingers stilling in the half-done braid, and he looks _regal_ , like a jungle cat indulging in conversation with lesser beings purely for his own entertainment. McCree wants to flop on his back and bear his throat.

“About what?” Hanzo gets a little crease between his eyebrows like he’s confused, and McCree tries to clarify.

“About.. Y’know. The thing with Hana and.. what she said ‘n.. stuff.” McCree wants to kick himself. Hanzo just raises an eyebrow.

“Stuff?” He brings his hand up to his hair to finish the braid. McCree curses under his breath.

“I didn’t know she was gonna say that _stuff_ , honest. I really didn’t mean to upset ya, I was just tellin’ her about those pastries you make -”

“ _Anpan_ ,” Hanzo corrects. His lips are curling up at the edges, and McCree’s feels his face heat up as he moves closer.

“ _Anpan_ , right -”

“And I wouldn’t consider it a pastry, as the dough is rather thick,” Hanzo’s becomes muffled as he rests his forehead on McCree’s belly. He gives into the urge to bury his face in the crown of Hanzo’s hair and dig his fingers into the fabric of that (soft, very soft) t-shirt.

“I do not mind the presumption that we are together,” Hanzo says, turning his face to the side in order to be heard. “In fact, I would presume the same.”

McCree pulls back, looks down. Runs his fingers down the length of Hanzo’s braid.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” he mutters. “The fuck did I ever do to deserve you?”

Hanzo hums and tugs McCree down, situates them so McCree’s lying up against the headboard and Hanzo’s sitting astride him. He leans in close ( _so_ close, close enough McCree is sure Hanzo can hear the jackrabbit staccato of his heart) and breathes,

“I might ask the same.”

His smile could power the whole of Gibraltar.


End file.
